The final sector tore past him like a tunnel collapsing in slow motion—walls of concrete, flickering lights, and the distant echo of a crowd he refused to hear. The engine screamed beneath him, a brutal, metallic howl that matched the rage and desperation pulsing through his veins.

Charles didn’t loosen his grip on the wheel. If anything, he tightened it.

His gloves creaked under the strain. His forearms shook. His jaw locked so hard it ached. He felt every vibration of the car like it was fused to his bones, every bump, every slip, every whisper of danger that threatened to rip the title away from him in the last cruel seconds of the season.

“Keep pushing, Charles!” the team shouted in his ear.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

He had been pushing for years.

The final corner curved into view, black and sharp, a place where he had failed before—where hope had slipped through his fingers, where podiums had become regrets, where championships had dissolved into nothing but smoke and apologies.

Not tonight.

He threw the car through the apex with terrifying precision, tires screaming as if begging for mercy he never intended to give. The rear snapped—just for a moment—but he caught it instantly, eyes burning behind the visor.

And then the straight opened before him. The checkered flag rose.

He flew past it.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t feel triumph. He felt release—violent, overwhelming, almost painful.

The radio exploded with screams, cheers, hysteria. Mechanics cried. Engineers shouted his name like a prayer finally answered. The world erupted into chaos.

But inside the cockpit, Charles sat in eerie silence.

His breath came sharp and ragged. A cold shiver crawled down his spine. His heartbeat thrashed like it was trying to break free of his chest.

He whispered—barely audible, almost afraid of the words.

“…It’s done.”

The car slowed. Sparks died. The engine whined in protest. And only then—only when the speed fell away—did the weight of the title settle over him.

Not warm. Not gentle. Something darker.

The kind of victory forged from pressure, obsession, sacrifice.

He rested his helmet against the seat, eyes closed, letting the darkness wash over him. The corners of his mouth lifted into a faint, exhausted, almost haunted smile.

World Champion. At last.

And God, it had cost him.